The Wandering Foodie

The frigid January air clung to me like an unwanted odor as I walked down the midtown street, stepping carefully to avoid the slick spots on the pavement. It had been a rough day. Things hadn’t gone well at work, a hair had been found in my sandwich at lunch, personal worries weighed on my mind and I generally just felt like being home, in my bed and being done with it.

But, I had a reservation at one of New York’s newest jazz clubs, The Aman Jazz Club, located in the basement of an upscale hotel. So, at 9pm on a Tuesday night, I found myself stepping down the red light-illuminated stairs to where two tall, pretty hostesses were waiting for me. The jazz club immediately lived up to its hype as I glazed at the velvet furniture, sexy lighting and high-end wood finishings while walking to my seat.

I was little apprehensive about being seated right next to stage, nervous of who might be watching me and who was behind me. But, I leaned into the experience, as right from the beginning, Brian Newman and company flowed into a smooth set that quickly sent Tuesday’s doldrums packing.

Ironically, I didn’t care much for jazz when I young. Perhaps it was too instrumental. Perhaps it had too much variety, too much wildnesses, not enough structure. But, in truth, I just had never really understood it. I had processed it with my brain, but had never felt it with my soul. I settled deeper into my seat at the front of the club and began to forget about the other people around me as I sank into the sweet melodies, my mind enraptured with each note and instrument. The piano running scales like a river; the trumpet’s shrill piercing; the low, deep mellow of the base; and the soaring symphonies of the saxophone.

For a couple hours, I didn’t care about work. I didn’t worry about my life and shortcomings. I just relaxed, smiled, laughed and let the music fill me fully with its joy, seduction and delicious melancholy. It was just what I needed for a dreary weeknight in January.

I will return again soon.